


driver’s license

by MEACHES



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Both POVs, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff and Angst, Getting Back Together, High School, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn, and they were ROOMMATES, georges feelings are hurt, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:20:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29143620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MEACHES/pseuds/MEACHES
Summary: George wants to get over it. He doesn’t want his hands to shake on the steering wheel. He doesn’t want to dread the winding roads.He doesn’t want the passenger seat to feel as horribly empty as it does.But he’s in college now, things can be different this time.But when Dream shows up at his doorstep, hair swept and bags in hand, he wonders if anything has really changed at all.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :D I wrote this in a bit of an emotional rush, and it might be a little fast paced but that’s my ADHD luvs
> 
> I hope you enjoy anyway. Also reminder I’m only writing this knowing those involved are comfortable with it- if you don’t like it that’s chill tho .

George hears his indicator going off, the repetitive beeping originally being a rhythmic background to his swirling thoughts. It gradually becomes less faint and more annoying, barging into his brain and seemingly becoming louder and louder. It pushes past the emotions, the deep grief that’s consuming him, until his head jolts upright. 

He remembers he’s parked at the side of the road, indicator blinking aimlessly at the cars passing him, even though he has no intention of moving. He quickly fills with shame and embarrassment, muscle memory shifting the gear stick, just like he had been practising. He presses down on the accelerator, pulling himself back onto the road. 

_ “Good, good,” there’s a warm smile greeting him, comforting grip on his thigh, “Just like I had taught you.”  _

George swears he feels it, the pressure, the fingertips, ghosting over his thigh. He blinks to the left stupidly, letting himself fill with disappointment when no one is staring fondly back at him. The phantom touch leaves his leg, the absence makes his skin burn. It’s suddenly awfully cold and quiet. 

His newly acquired license sits on the dashboard, his own, smaller printed out face staring back at him, almost tauntingly. The piece of laminated plastic was of no real significance to most, but every time George saw it, he felt the urge to snap it in half. 

He is driving in his new-ish car. It was new for him, he supposed, but quite obviously worn in by many owners before him. The flooring had ridden up slightly, the chairs collecting lint. He had noted a slight damp smell in the back seat, but was unable to locate the source. It was fine. He hung up a cheap, vanilla car freshener, the green tree shape rocked back and forth as he drove, sometimes smacking against his forehead if he hit the brakes a bit  _ too _ abruptly. 

But again, it was fine, the car didn’t bother him, he quite liked it.  _ The car _ wasn’t the issue. 

It was the fact he was able to drive. 

He acknowledges how dumb it sounds, but a small part of him never thought this day would come. He delayed it too- for as long as possible- until he couldn’t anymore. He failed his test the first two times, somewhat purposefully, with the added edge of not having firm hands to encourage him. George wasn’t ready to let go, and it was stupid. 

But time isn’t patient, nor does it wait around for people to process. It will always spur forward, and you can either reluctantly follow or fall terribly behind. So George continues on, and he lives, ignoring the terrible feeling that comes with it. He got his license through gritted teeth and repressed disappointment. 

“You’re the first person I’ve met who seems less relieved after hearing they’ve passed,” George remembered the instructor laughing, he could only offer a meak smile in return. 

He’s driving himself to college, knuckles white as they grip the steering wheel. Partially due to nerves, the other half of him just filled with discomfort. He’s back in America, for the first time in nearly two years. 

In reality, not much time had passed but George has changed so much as an individual that it almost felt wrong to be there as his current self, and not in some shadowy, ghost form of his past. He’s an adult now, someone who worried about loans and taxes, last time he was in the country he couldn’t even grow facial hair. 

The roads speed by him in a blur, remnants of his memories peaking when he sees something he vaguely recognised. As time passes, he becomes more comfortable with the world around him, it was familiar once again. America, whether he liked it or not, was a second home to him. It spiked ugly, festering feelings in him at first, but- as the trees whizzed and dirt on the road blew up into dust, he remembers that this was his home too. 

He couldn’t hold onto the heaviness that sunk into his stomach and riddled its way into his bones, he had to move on. This was George’s chance to start again, to rewrite the memories of the past that he no longer wanted to define his life there. With a new sense of determination, George watches the road ahead of him. He doesn’t dare glance to the passenger’s side, not even once.

* * *

He arrives at his so-called new home hours later. George is drumming his fingertips against the dashboard, chewing into his already chapped and teared lips, reopening the wounds. Due to a lack of money, George had to share residence with five other people, none of them he even had a name for. 

George wasn’t necessarily  _ shy- _ just uncomfortable and reserved around people he didn’t know. He would probably be described as awkward to people he just met, with his stiffended shoulders and standoffish nature, but he relaxed when he got to know the person. 

George feels the warm taste of metal on his tongue, taking that as warning enough to release his teeth from where they were denting his lips. He peers out his window at the very standard, very ordinary American house in front of him. 

He spots him almost immediately, a tuft of brown hair and wide eyes pressed excitedly at the door. There’s a blur of someone desperately unlocking the front door, and then there’s a man sprinting across the front lawn. George watches in somewhat awe as he runs across the grass in his socks pulled up to his shins, tripping on absolutely nothing at least five times. 

The same face is now pressed against the driver’s window, peering in at George, “Hello!” 

George flinches backwards, regardless of the glass and metal separating the two, he feels intimidated. He waves weakly back at the man, putting on a feigned smile. George is pretty sure he looks like he’s about to pee himself, and he feels like it too. 

The man in front of him has dark, floppy brown hair that’s falling into his eyes. He has one of those smiles that despite being genuine, always come across as a smirk. George doesn’t know what to make of him, not wanting to judge him based on his tie dyed tank top, despite how many warning signals his brain is sending him. If he writes off every guy who looks like a frat member, he doubts he will make any friends. 

George hesitantly opens his car door, standing out onto the road. 

“Sorry about that,” the guy offers, a slight Southern twinge to his voice, “I’ve been here for a few days on my own, I was starting to think no one else was gonna show up.”

George scratches the back of his neck, unintentionally staring at the gravel on the floor rather than making eye contact, “That’s okay, I’m excited too- just on the inside.” 

The guy in front of him immediately beams at the unexpected voice, smiling more enthusiastically now, a bit more sincere, “Are you British?”

“Sort of,” Is all George offers, shrugging his shoulders. He feels the heat on his back, familiar yet new all the same. The warmth is different in America, it’s heavier and seems to cling to your clothes. It’s humid, in the way that seems to weigh you down, dragging and unpleasant. He would get used to it, though, he always has.

“Alright then, sort of British dude,” His new potential friend announces, making his way to the back of George’s car, presumably to help him bring in his belongings, “What’s your name?” 

“George.”

“Alright George, good to meet you,” He’s laughing then, it’s comforting and low, “I’m Nick.” 

  
  


* * *

Nick, George decides, is a chill dude. He is an immediately likeable type character, the kind of guy who could befriend a brick wall. Not entirely outgoing, but bright and funny to the company he decides to keep. George likes him. 

Nick took the initiative of emptying George’s car, being considerably more built than the other, he could carry multiple boxes under his arm while George watched on, wildly impressed. 

They were sitting on the couch together, watching some nonsense TV when George finally feels comfortable enough to start a conversation. 

“Do you know who else is coming, and when?” 

Nick displays that welcoming smile again, appreciative that the newcomer is warming up to him. 

“Uh yeah, sort of,” He explains, “There’s three others I think...I only know one of the guys personally, we’ve lived here for a while. He’s the best, seriously. You’ll like him, probably more than me- he’s just… he’s like that. Likeable… y’know?”

George laughs, eyes squinting in the way that he does when he means it, when the giggle is genuinely  _ earned _ , not forced, “I think you’re likeable, very much so.”

Nick stood up, chuckling, “That is true. I  _ am _ hot shit. But he's different, everyone loves him. I’ve known him my whole life. It’s always been like that.”

“Wow,” George watches Nick pace the room aimlessly, “You have me excited now, really hyping this guy up.” 

Nick is rummaging through plastic bags on the living room floor, chatting with his voice muffled, “Unfortunately he won’t be here until later tonight. The other guys are arriving in a couple of hours. I was thinking…”

George peaks his head over the couch, trying to catch a glimpse of what the other was searching for. 

“Before they arrive,” Nick reappears with glass bottles in either hand, eyes sparkling in a sort of a mischievous way, “Me and you start the party a little early.”

  
  


* * *

George wasn’t sure how it came to this, and he’s too inebriated to backtrack his actions and thoughts to work it out. All he knows is that he was having fun, and he wasn’t going to complain about it. It had been a while since his heart jolted happily in his chest, his senses active and participating. It had been a while since he engaged the world around him, purely because it’s the first time in forever that he actually  _ cared _ about it. 

George never liked alcohol, or big groups of people, he now found himself participating in both. It started with just Nick, sipping on a drink that he accepted out of a need to be polite. Then each drink began to seem like a better idea than the last, and the jokes either of them were telling got  _ that  _ bit funnier. He was then gulping at the glass bottle between his lips, it was inviting now, and set alight something within him that he was unaware of. 

By the time Nick suggested calling his friends over, George was already a little slumped into the couch. He turned his head slowly, laughing at him as a response. Most of his actual housemates had shown up at one point, but George couldn’t distinctly pick them out between the guests. There was music, and it thumped into the floorboards. George could feel it in the palms of his feet, enjoying how the vibrations would flow into the rest of his body. 

He had been alone for a while, happily standing in the corner of the kitchen, swaying. He had a cup in his hand, entirely unaware of its specific contents. He probably should’ve cared a little more, but this was the lightest he felt in years. 

There’s a low rumble of collective voices, warm bodies pushing together and apart. Every face was unfamiliar and distant, it was unusually comforting. There were no consequences or responsibilities, he didn’t care about the people around him and they didn’t care about him- a perfect relationship. 

George suddenly felt his little bubble being invaded, and there’s eyes staring down at him. He’s dumbly smiling- he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to stop. There was a hand much larger than his, taking his cup away and placing it on the counter. 

“Have you had a little too many over here?” The voice is deep and low, it sinks into George a little, he decides he likes it, and subconsciously leans forward towards it. 

“Not enough- I fink,” George laughs at himself, falling back onto the wall for support purposely, expecting the same big hands to balance him. They did. He’s blinking up at a boy, he doesn’t know him. There’s big brown eyes staring back at him, George thinks he sees fondness in them. 

“Alright,” He feels a palm on the small of his back, keeping him upright, “Let’s get you some water huh?” 

George frowns. This isn’t the kind of attention he’s craving, it’s too soft, too wholesome. The alcohol has him feeling fiery and bold, the platonic nature of the exchange frustrates him. His drink has his skin burning, small, yet noteable embers flickering inside him. George wants something to set him alight completely, he wants the smoke to swallow him whole. It’s been too long since he’s allowed himself this, without heavy guilt and resentment attached. 

“You’re really making this dull,” George pouts, the guy is taller than him, but thin. His hair curls prettily around his face. It’s not his usual type, the heat curling around in his core doesn’t seem to care. 

The guy is filling a cup of water over the sink, his shoulders shaking as he laughs at George, “I was originally coming over to hit on you, but when your eyes started focusing on my forehead I quickly realised you aren’t in the state for it.” 

George feels like throwing a bit of a tantrum. This isn’t what he wants. 

“Are you sure you can’t still?” His body is moving on his own, squishing himself in front of the guy at the counter, smiling goofily up at him. 

“I’m sure,” There’s arms around his waist now, squeezing slightly, “Maybe next time.” 

George leans into the touch, burying his nose into the others neck, breathing in deeply. He hears the strangers breath hitch above him. George smiles. 

“Stop being difficult,” the taller pulls back, turning around his head in search of help, “Yo, Sapnap, come get your boy before I eat him whole.” 

There’s a distant laughter and suddenly all warmth is pulled away. It’s replaced by Nick grabbing him by the shoulder, the smell of vodka and sweat encasing him. The tall guy disappears into the crowd, and George feels cold again. 

“You little devil,” Nick chuckles, his face a little sweaty, eyes darting, “Stop harassing my friends.” 

George throws his arms up in defence, “He started it!” 

He’s being pushed around by Nick, a heavy arm pressing into his shoulder. It’s a little cramped, a little too close, but it’s nice all the same. He’s smiling again, getting over his brief horny loss. George feels like he’s glowing, and that things are finally looking up. Maybe- he can move on. Maybe this is it. His life can start again. 

He and Nick and standing across from each other in the hallway, chatting half-hazardly when there’s a knock on the door. George acknowledges the luck of whoever’s behind it, knowing they wouldn’t have a chance of being heard if the two weren’t sitting there already. 

George feels prompted to answer it, swaying towards the entrance, his feet a little heavy as he walks. He swings it open without much thought, Nick following quickly behind.

“Oh this is probably man of the hour, remember the friend I told you about?” 

The door opens. Bitter air immediately rushes through, and George feels a little more present than before. 

“Hey! I’m-“ the voice stops. George looks up. His heart falls to the floor. 

Suddenly everything comes crashing down, the high, the hope, the alcohol. It somehow completely leaves him, and George feels scarily sober, but somehow insane. He’s blinking rapidly, hoping the sight in front of him is a joke- a hallucination- anything but reality or truth. 

“George?” He doesn’t remember his voice being that reserved, that timid. George hates it, he hates that it’s directed at him. He hates that he makes the other feel small. He hears Nick make a noise of confusion behind him. 

He gulps, and it feels like his Adam's apple is dragging down his throat, clawing at the flesh on the way down. It takes his words with it, and he’s just standing at the door like an idiot. 

He swallows again, forcing his vocal chords to move. He feels his eyes burning, and he wants to run away. 

The words come out eventually, dry and ugly. It’s just a word, but it’s heavy. 

“ _ Dream _ ?”


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George is pretty and witty, and Dream doesn’t know what he makes of him. 
> 
> Until he does- and wants nothing more than to escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i ain’t got shit to say lollll. just know i am a shit editor and no beta so there if there’s typos please spare me hahah

Dream is seventeen when he meets George for the first time. 

Something enamours him about the shorter boy, and he doesn’t have the words to explain it. He’s intriguing and weird, completely different to the people Dream usually surrounds himself with. He’s quiet yet so completely loud, tame while also insane. He’s confusing, but Dream feels like he should take all the time in the world to piece him together, figure him out. 

Dream wants to make sense of him, exactly as he is. To know the quirks, the icks, what makes him laugh and what makes him angry. He wants it uncensored and unchanged, and laid out completely in front of him. So he does everything he can to accomplish it. 

They meet first amidst Dream’s rebellious phase, the same time in which he even began referring to himself as _‘Dream’_. His real name is Clay, but Dream is cooler. He likes the way it sounds, how it describes him, it’s unique and Dream is young. He likes how people perk up when he announces his name, seemingly more interested by its originality. Being an awkward teenager, there’s something fulfilling about being seen, even if he’s somewhat forcefully grabbing people’s attention. 

He’s in the bathroom, avoiding math class when he sees George for the first time. He wants to- _deep down_ \- tell himself it’s because he’s above it all, and that’s he’s purposefully being bad, but he can’t. The anxiety sitting grossly on his chest won’t let him believe his own lies, the palms that are shaking against his thighs tell his story before he can even fib about it. 

His chest is heavy and he cannot shake it. He’s trying to focus on the running water of the tap beside him to ground himself, instead of letting his thoughts flood his head- they pour into the sink, settling into the drain. 

Dream isn’t that bad at math, if someone sat down with him and really _explained_ it, he knows he’d ace it. In class he doodles and creates little worlds in his head, none of which prioritise Algebraic division. It’s fun and keeps his focus, something numbers and shapes never could do. But he feels guilty and dumb for not following, so he ends up in the bathroom. He’d rather not show up at all than have to face failure, something he attributed to having a gifted childhood and gradually falling off. 

He’s managed to reduce his nervousness to light foot tapping when someone walks in, making him flinch. 

He’s _pretty_ \- is the first intrusive thought that comes barging into Dream’s brain. With a little more observation and time, he decides that he agrees with the brashness of his first impression. The marination of the boy's face only cemented his prettiness, rather than disproving it. Dream’s tongue presses against the top of his mouth, feeling a little intimidated. 

“Are you skipping?” Dream blurts out, stopping the boy in his tracks, who was seemingly hoping to make a beeline to the toilet without addressing the guy slumped by the sink. 

He squints at Dream, looking repulsed. His charming hazel eyes are reduced to judgemental little slits, his nose scrunched. He pauses for a moment, as if he’s debating on whether to entertain Dream or not.

“No,” is all he says, before disappearing into a stall. Dream stands awkwardly, suddenly not knowing where to put his hands, opting to shove them in his hoodie. 

The action is followed by many painful moments of silence.

“Are you not going to pee?” Dream queries, unable to stand the quiet any longer. He notes an audible sigh from the cubicle. 

“It’s a little difficult with you just standing there, listening.”

Dream laughs at this, the weight in his chest lifting a little. The distraction is nice and keeps his mind astray more effectively than the running water, so he decides to play with it. 

“Pee shy, are we?” Dream lets his footsteps resound as he plods outside the stall, purposefully trying to cause the other discomfort.

“You’re really weird,” Dream notices the accent for the first time. He likes it- he thinks. 

“Are there no urinals in England?” He quips. He hears the lock being abruptly pulled open, metal clanking against plastic. Then he’s standing in front of Dream, brows furrowed and nostrils flared. He has dark brown hair, almost black, it looks soft. Dream can see the light freckles spread across his face from the closeness.

“There is,” the boy sounds frustrated, “I just have a preference for not having other men stare at my dick.” 

He pushes past Dream, angrily washing his hands despite never going to the toilet. It’s a formality, he supposed.

“I don’t know about you, but when I’m peeing I tend not to take peaks at my neighbours penis,” Dream joins him at the sinks, watching him carefully in the mirror. His sleeves are pulled up, arms frail and thin. Dream thinks he’s interesting. He watches the pale skin flex as the brunette watches his hands, muscles shifting. 

“Remind me to never come to this toilet again,” There’s tissue paper being pulled aggressively out of the dispenser, and Dream realises he’s running out of time. 

“What’s your name? I’m Dream.”

”That’s not your real name, is it?”

”Nope.”

The boy stops before throwing the tissue in the bin, eyeing Dream like he’s never seen him before. 

He pauses, looking him up and down again. 

“George.” 

And then he’s gone. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Dream feels like he sees George everywhere after that. 

Brown hair turning around hallways, big smiles standing at lockers and dainty hands grabbing trays at lunch. 

It’s driving him a little mad, because his interest always piques, his heart always lurches in intrigue. He doesn’t like it, it’s foreign and confusing, and not something he wants to think about. 

He knows the way he’s feeling towards George is the same way he feels about girls, and it makes his stomach churn in an ugly discomfort. He manages to block out the thoughts during the day, but once he’s at home and in his own head, they swallow him whole. 

It’s like being thrown into freezing water, completely unaware and confused. In the hurry and blur, the cold entrapping your body, your supposed to be able to remain calm- to _think_. With limbs numb and heart stalled in shock, you have to push passed it all and escape. It’s the only way to survive. 

When George crawls into his thoughts one night, when his fist is shoved into his shorts, Dream feels a deep rooted shame like never before. He panics and cries, chest heaving, sobbing into a pillow. 

It’s pitch black and cold- and Dream realises he’s drowning. 

He’s needs a way out. 

Some time after that, Dream gets a girlfriend. She’s blonde and full- and she’s everything George isn’t. 

He feels himself able to float to the surface. 

* * *

Dream is eighteen when he sees George again. 

Coincidentally, he finds himself back in the school bathrooms. He is there with genuine purpose this time, his nose choosing to random start bleeding during class. He doesn’t avoid classes anymore, he’s found a sort of pride in showing up to every class, even if he doesn’t do great. 

He’s single now. A little taller- fitting into his body a bit better. His hands are no longer to big for his body, he’s grown into his face and ears. It’s good for him really, it’s caught him a little more female attention. He manages to grow stubble these days, it defines his jaw in a way that makes him look older than he is. 

He’s awkwardly shoving pieces of tissue up his leaking nose when he finally sees George again. He hears a sort of shuffling outside of the door, and then there’s a familiar boy staring right at him, eyes unsure. He’s sniffling, his faces looks worn. 

Dream doesn’t really know how to react, especially with bloody tissues wrapped around his hands, one finger currently shoving one up his nostril as he’s trying to look in the mirror at the same time. It doesn’t hurt, but the embarrassment of the situation makes him visibly wince. It’s emotional anguish, not physical. 

“Do you need help?” George asks, but his face is scrunched up in a way that suggests that he wants nothing to the do with the situation, fists balled up at his waist. His voice is a little shaky, not quite full or confident, but the blonde doesn’t take notice. 

“Unless you want you stick your little slender fingers up my nose-“ Dream pauses, taking a moment to look away from his unseemly reflection to glance at George, “Then no.”

George doesn’t reply, instead he shuffles timidly against the linoleum floor, his shoes squeaking as he moves. He opts to lean against the cold, tiled wall, watching Dream with a glint in his eye, something akin to amusement. 

“Did you get in a fight?” Dream likes his accent. He hasn’t heard it in a while, buts it’s sweet and comforting. 

The faulty public school lights above them flicker, the pipes screeching uncomfortably, forcing water to flow through the aged system. There’s distant mumbled sounds of ongoing classes and people moving around, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. 

Dream lets his hands fall from his face, tissue hanging comically from his nose. He’s smiling at George, a sideways goofy smirk that makes the other laugh. 

“Do you really think I’m the type of guy to fight people?” Dream is cackling at himself when he finally notices how red Georges eyes are, and how he’s been bringing his sleeve up to wipe at his face since he’s entered the room. Guilt floods him, and he’s really stupid, and it’s not even because of the tissue swinging from side to side from his face.

“Oh shit uh,” Dream is pulling the tissues off dramatically, shoving them into a bin, the bleeding has stopped by now, “Are you okay?” 

George seems startled by the question, his shoulders hunching in a sort of defence. His eyes are darting around, as though he’s looking for a way out. 

There isn’t one. 

George is good at hiding his emotions, he’s even _better_ at not crying when he doesn’t want to. However, he has one thing that gets him every time, and that’s when someone’s _asks_. If someone takes any sort of interest in his feelings, it all crumbles apart. 

“I uh,” George is stammering, he knows it. He’s feels his cheeks becoming hot, throat closing up. His skin is prickling, and he’s knows what’s coming, “I’m fine.” 

Dream doesn’t know how to react when the tears start silently falling down George’s face. He’s not making any sort of noise, merely just staring blankly ahead of him, as if he’s trying to will the tears back into his sockets. George starts sort of gasping then, his chest heaving. Dream takes it that he’s more panicked about crying in front of him than the actual reasons he’s upset about.

“Hey, hey,” Dream is shushing softly, placing a light hand on George’s shoulder, “It’s okay, it’s alright. Just let it out. I’ve had more than my fair share of panic in this room.” 

Dream leans forward, Georges eyes are frantic, and his touch only seems to upset him more. Dream is gesturing for George to move, and the shorter obliges, presumably because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Dream gets George sitting on the floor, legs crossed and pressed closely to his chest. Dream gets up, twisting the tap on. 

“Alright, close your eyes,” He’s sitting back down, directly in front of George, taking his hands in his own, “Take a deep breath in, and focus on the running water. Imagine whatever bullshit you have going on in your head flow down that drain. It’s gone.” 

They stay like that for a while, Dream calmly guiding George while the other listen intently. It works, gradually, Dream can feel his hands slowly stop shaking against his own palm. He’s imagines soothing the waves of panic, rubbing his thumb against George’s skin. 

It’s weird, Dream barely knows the guy, but he’s feels like it’s his duty to help him. He’s been through things much too similar, and wishes someone had been there for him through it. He’s glad _he_ can be that person at least, and not the guy who’s hears sniffling from a cubicle and awkwardly backs out into the hallway. 

It’s rewarding, to see George’s eyes flicker open, offering him a thankful smile. His lashes are long and stained with tears, but his eyes are happy. Dream recalls that he’s pretty once more, the low, dull feeling of jealousy tickling his stomach, and an even deeper resurfacing of panic.

“Thank you,” George whispers. He gives Dream’s hand a squeeze. 

“Wanna tell me what happened?” Dream releases the smaller hand in his grip, leaning back away from the boy to try and create a more casual atmosphere. He doesn’t want to make it weird or tense, he wants George to feel relaxed about the whole thing. 

“Now that I’m calm about it- it’s really so dumb. So fucking dumb, like embarrassingly stupid,” George is more relaxed now, his shoulders sitting loosely and he’s giggling, “It’s just...it’s even embarrassing to think about now.” 

“Oh c’mon,” Dream pushes, “It doesn’t matter if it’s dumb. It’s important to you, that matters. If you share it, it might make you feel better.” 

George’s eyebrows pinch together, like he’s considering it, “Fine. But promise you won’t laugh?” 

Dream gestures a cross on his chest with his pointer finger, “I promise.” 

He leans forward, hand on his chin, completely attentive. George is laughing again. Dream decides that he likes him more much like this, eyes squinted cheerfully. 

“Alright. So. It’s just…God this is _stupid_. Right. Okay. Well, i’m eighteen now. Me and my friends were talking- and y’know joking...They brought up how i’m a bit of a prude, but like- they always make that joke- and it’s true but, I don’t know, this time it kind of got to me,” George is glancing up at Dream for reassurance. He’s not laughing, he’s nodding, face sincere. 

“And it was fine at first, but they kept _pushing._ About how i’ve never done anything interesting, or accomplished anything. That i’m an adult with the life experience of a kid. They said I’m gonna fall behind, that kind of shit. It’s usually funny, you know. But it got in my head this time, ‘cos it’s true. And I hate it.” 

Dream is closer now, watching him intently, “Well then, was is it?” 

George is confused, “What is _what_?” 

“What haven’t you done that’s so important?” 

George immediately flushes without meaning to, the embarrassment he felt earlier resurfacing, “Well...I uh...I’ve never kissed anyone for example.” 

Dream quirks an eyebrow at that, George fills with shame. 

“So what?” Dream says nonchantly, “Doesn’t matter. What else?” 

“I can’t drive.” 

“Anything else?” 

“I’ve never been to a party.”

“And?”

“I’ve never drunk alcohol.” 

“Is that it?”

“Or done any drugs.” 

Dream stops, thumb pressed to his chin. 

“Personally,” he begins, “I don’t think any of those things matter, you don’t need to them to be grown up or accomplished in life...but...is it important to you?” 

George nods, he’s chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Alright then.” 

Dream is right in George’s face then, the smaller pushes back, a little startled. Suddenly, there’s rough, large hands against his cheeks, pulling him forward. George doesn’t know what’s happening, but he can count the freckles on Dream’s nose with the proximity. 

Dream doesn’t even think about it, he pushes his lips quickly against George’s, offers a small peck and immediately moves away, looking for a reaction. 

George’s eyes are blown in shock, Dream wonders if he’s about to be punched in the face. Instead, George bursts out laughing, to the point where he’s gripping his thigh. It’s contagious, and Dream can’t help but join in along with him. They both sit there, on the bathroom floor, laughing into each others space. 

A bell rings outside, loud and abrupt, breaking the giggles. Dream pulls them both off of the floor, giving George’s arm a small stroke of acknowledgment. 

“Next time,” Dream says, turning to leave, “I’ll teach you how to drive.” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George realises he’s going to be living with Dream, and has one hell of a time trying to process it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ty so much for the nice comments !! They really are my only motivation for this so please drop your thoughts if u can <3 
> 
> I didn’t edit this. Please spare me.

George hears Nick move up from behind him, he grabs onto his arm and squeezes just a little bit, it’s just enough pressure to ground him, to let him feel like he can blink. 

He pulls George back then, so he's standing behind him, “Don’t tell me he’s  _ that _ George?” 

George looks at Dream again, in complete disbelief. He knows his hands are shaking, he feels them trembling intensely at his sides, he knows even more that he can’t stop it. Surprisingly, he doesn’t cry, he feels like he should be. He thinks he might be going numb, because for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t feel much at all. 

“Yes,” is all Dream says, not moving an inch. 

He’s different now, older, broader. He isn’t as blonde as he used to be, the last of his brighter strands now an ashy brown. His head suits his body a little more comfortably, he’s more sharp and defined than before. His eyes are a little dark, a little sullen, they don’t have the spark and determination that they used to. George notices his nose is straighter, must’ve been put back in place from when he broke it. 

George liked it before, he liked how it curved to the side. He would run his fingers along it and boop the tip, Dream would always laugh. It sat straight on his face now. George felt a little sick. 

Nick wraps his fingers around George’s wrist, giving it another gentle squeeze. George leans into it, feeling an insistent need for any kind of comfort. 

Nick turns around, facing George. He’s blocking Dream from view. 

“Hey, you’re shaking,” George didn't even notice, not until Nick holds up his hand in front of him, “It’s alright, go upstairs, go to bed. You can deal with this tomorrow, yeah?” 

“Are you okay?” George hears Dream ask, and he wants to fucking scream. The softness of his voice makes his skin sit uncomfortably on his body, he can suddenly feel his clothing tags scratching him. He wants to crawl out of it, because right then it didn’t feel like it belonged to him, “You could go to the bathroom, run the water-“

Suddenly, the world seems to be silenced. It's almost as if everyone cleared from the house without them noticing, their voices no longer travelling- disappearing without even a little mumble left behind. There’s no music, no rhythmic beat thumping happily in his chest, tingling his bones. It’s all in a stand still, replaced with tonal ringing, and it’s escalating-  _ louder and louder- _

“ _ No _ ,” George spits, “I don’t want anything from you. Running water makes me feel sick because of you.” 

The sound rushes back into George’s ears, and he feels like he can breathe again. 

Nick takes this as his opportunity to mediate the situation. George feels him pulling him away, forcing him up the stairs and away from Dream. 

George realises it’s his first time in the upstairs of his new home while he’s being pushed into what’s presumably, his new room. It doesn't have much time to take any of it in, as Sapnap is moving too quickly for his not-so-sane nor not-so-sober brain to handle. The only thing his eyes can focus on is the others' determined face, who’s still moving him even after they’ve already entered the room. 

Nick doesn’t stop until George is flopping backwards, reluctantly finding himself sitting on a bed. 

“You know you were supposed to be sharing this room with him but,” Nick stops to laugh a little awkwardly, scratching the back of his head, “Yeah, not now. I’ll stay here with you, don’t worry about that.” 

They sit silently for a considerable amount of time, but it’s not uncomfortable. George is thinking, processing what’s going on. Nick is waiting patiently, sitting himself on the floor in front of George, his legs crossed and pressed to his chest. George doesn’t know what’s weirder, that some random guy is being this considerate- or the fact that Dream is probably standing in the hallway downstairs like an idiot. 

“Why are you being this nice to me? You’re  _ his  _ friend,” George decides he’d rather talk about Nick than address what’s happening concerning himself, he doesn’t want to think about it, not yet, or more favourably,  _ ever _ .

“Yeah, I know,” Nick shifts where he’s sitting, George can’t really tell what he’s doing, it’s too dark, “But I also know what happened, how it happened, and what he did. Fuck, I was even around when it happened, just didn’t realise it was  _ you _ .” 

George is blinking into the darkness of the room as if Nick can see his reaction. He’s even more lost than ever, yet still thankful that he doesn’t have to talk about it is Nick somehow already knows everything. 

“I don’t remember Dre-  _ Clay _ being friends with someone called Nick.”

He watches Nick make a weird face at the use of “ _Clay_ ”, and George really wishes he didn’t. He felt his own tongue go dry when saying it, he didn’t need the weirdness of it emphasised. Anyone who knew Dream called him Dream, Clay was almost a sign of distance, that’s why George decided to use it. He didn’t want to address Dream at all. 

“I was his internet friend. I think we chatted a couple of times...Do you remember Sapnap?”

The memories come flooding back at once, loud cackles and a familiar honey voice. George can't believe he didn’t recognise it. He gives himself some credit, Sapnap’s voice was  _ much _ higher when they knew each other. 

“Oh my God.  _ You’re Sapnap? _ ”

It’s weird, finally matching a face to a person you've only ever heard described, but never having seen them. George had heard Nick’s- or rather Sapnap’s voice many times in passing, but it’s hard to believe that he’s  sitting in front of him. 

He matches the feigned description George had made up for him in his head,  _ sort of _ . He’s beefy and lean, and looks like he could probably crush George easily. He’s got these thick eyebrows that frame his face nicely, dark hair falling into his eyes. 

“And you’re George.  _ The _ George. The dumb British guy I watched my friend fall in love with, and then subsequently cry over for the next following years of his life. It’s like meeting a celebrity.”

George wants to match Sapnap with the same lightheartedness, but he feels a jolt of pain in his chest and the reoccurring grievance of distant longing. He physically feels himself flinch at the mention of the word love, it doesn’t sit right with him anymore. He isn’t sure if he knows what it means, or if he ever did. 

Sapnap seems to notice his discomfort and laughs awkwardly, but it’s obvious he feels guilty, his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s standing up then, patting down his pants for no real reason other than trying to break the tension. 

“I think you should go to bed George, I’ll send everyone home,” Sapnap is smiling at him, but it’s one of pity and sympathy.

George almost forgets about the crowd downstairs, the strangers he never got a chance to talk to or have fun with. He starts to wonder if anything has really changed at all, or if he’s just the same mirage of himself that he used to be. He feels himself falling into the same traps, the same patterns, just in a different location. Even Dream is here, clinging onto his every being whether he likes it or not. 

George wants nothing more than to move on, but he isn’t sure if the world will let him. 

“Thank you Nick- or- Sapnap?”

“Either is fine.” 

“Thank you, for everything, really.”

Sapnap nods at him, and leaves. 

It’s far too quiet now, yet the silence is  _ so so _ loud. 

His shoulders are immediately slumping, and he sighs shakily. 

It’s hard to say how to process seeing someone you loved again, especially when it’s an unwanted reunion. There’s a sort of unspoken wedge, the previous closeness and warmth was now closed off, forbidden. To transition to holding someone, shoving your face in their neck, to becoming physically uneasy around them was hard, and it hurt. The fondness in his eyes was replaced with cold distance and uncertainty. 

George could hear running water. It was dripping slowly, drop by drop, trickling into a sink. He wanted nothing more than for it to stop, to turn it off, it didn’t bring him comfort anymore. 

The water pressure increases, and George feels his stomach recoiling. The numbness has dissipated now, and the adrenaline and frustration was pouring in its replacement. 

He lies down in the bed, and curls in on himself. He feels his shoulders tensing up again, releasing into inconsistent shakes. The taps are flowing, and his breaths are uneven and quiet. 

The water only ceases when George closes his eyes. He falls asleep with a dampness on his pillow. 

* * *

The brightness of daylight is unwelcome. It disrupts the peace and tranquillity of unconsciousness. In sleep, the world melts away, and you are welcomed into an unfeeling bliss. The stress of the real, tangible world is stripped away, a new more malleable reality is experienced instead. Even if it all goes horribly wrong and you want it to end, it always does. You can wake up, and start fresh the next night. 

The real world wasn’t so forgiving. To sleep was only to delay, and there was no waking into a better situation. The same body and the same experiences came flooding back every morning. 

George is stalling. He feels the weight of his bones and his clothes, yet tries to fool himself into thinking he’s still asleep, that he can stay away from his problems for just another few minutes. But his eyes are squeezed a bit too tensely, and his breathes are patterned and soft. The blanket on his skin and the light shining annoyingly on his face we’re just more unwanted reminders that his grace period had officially ended. 

He pulls himself up so he’s sitting, squinting into his new room, eyes unfocused. 

With newfound sobriety and clear mind, he finally registers his surroundings. It’s nothing much, just two beds pressed against the right wall, his unpacked bags sitting on the floor. There’s a window to the left, a cupboard sitting underneath. Nothing noteworthy, other than the fact he’s in the room alone. 

He feels the dull nagging of hunger, but equal disdain for ever leaving the security of his room again. 

After some time and many angry growls from his stomach, George finally explores beyond the boundaries of his room. It’s dumb, finding himself creaking his door open, peaking is head out into the hallway. It’s clear, so he continues his mission downstairs. 

He’s a little gross, he admits, still wearing jeans and a t-shirt from yesterday. He cannot fathom how he slept with the intrusive material riding up his legs, but at that moment he didn’t even notice. He grimaces at the thought, and continues tiptoeing down the stairs. 

He reaches the entrance of the kitchen without any unwanted encounters, but pauses now that he can hear muffled voices beyond the door. He presses his ear against the wood, listening in. 

“What are you doing?” 

George lunges backwards at the unexpected voice, whacking the back of his head against the wall. He lets out a yelp, making his already compromising situation considerably worse. He hears a high pitched laugh, and thanks every higher power that he doesn’t recognise it. 

“I was listening,” George explains to the stranger, unable to think of an excuse for what he was doing. 

“You’re weird,” the boy decides, “The door opens, you know that right?” 

George presumes the guy looking at him like he oozes pure insanity is one of his new roommates. He has these bright eyes and fluffy hair, they seem to match up with his goofy laugh. George resigns any hope of befriending him, he has already ruined his chances with almost everyone in the house within 24 hours. George wonders if it could be a new record. 

“I know,” George shrugs, “I wanted to know who’s in there.” 

The guy pushes in front of him, grabs the knob, and swings the door open so violently it whacks against the wall, making way too much noise for the inconspicuous mission that George was trying to accomplish. The intruder stares back at him with a blank look on his face. 

“Go in. No balls.” 

“You’re fucking evil,” George whispers. 

“No my name is Karl.” 

_Karl_ trails into the kitchen nonchalantly while George is still standing in the hallway with his mouth agape in horror. 

“Gosh I really hope Dream isn't here right now!” Karl is shouting, bringing his hands to his mouth in an “o” shape, like a faux megaphone, “That would be super duper awkward!” 

George runs in after him, making an attempt to tackle the practical stranger into silence. While they have a similar build, Karl doesn’t budge even with George desperately clinging to him. He only laughs, trying to pull George off his body. 

Sapnap is watching at the kitchen table, one eyebrow arched in question, “do you guys know each other?” 

“No!” George blurts from where his head is now lodged in Karl’s armpit, stuck in some sort of weird headlock, “He’s just fucking crazy.” 

Luckily, Dream is nowhere to be seen, but it doesn’t stop George's ears from burning red. Karl releases him and he gasps, clutching his chest from the trauma. Karl doesn’t take much notice, casually sitting himself down beside Sapnap at the table. 

“So you’ve met Karl then?” Sapnap asks, an obvious grin being suppressed. 

George is readjusting himself, flattening his hair back down on his scalp, it’s fruitless, strands still pointing out weirdly. He narrows his eyes, “yes. He's a real pleasure. And you,  _ you  _ told you him?” 

Sapnap just shrugs, “He’s living with us. He’s gonna need to know why two of his roommates are avoiding each other like the plague.” 

The reality of George’s situation dawns on him again, the pit of anxiety sturs in his core. He smiles shakily, trying to repress his own growing discomfort, “Yeah, okay.” 

“In my defence,” Karl begins, “I was only messing with you, I knew Dream wasn’t around.” 

George waves his hand dismissively, “It’s fine. I’m fine, just- yeah. It’s all good.” 

Karl and Sapnap immediately look at eachother, George instantly knows they don’t believe him. He doesn’t try any convincing, there's no point. He doesn’t believe himself either. The gravity of it all hasn’t even hit him yet, and he’s not looking forward to the outcome when it does. 

He wonders temporarily if he should’ve just stayed in England, if all of this was a mistake. He could always go back, return to his everyday normality. However, the easy escape doesn’t ease his mind either. He wants to live, he wants the world to excite him again. Whether he wants to admit it or not, between the excitement and pain, he feels the blood rushing in his veins again. 

“What are you going to do?” Karl enquiries, earning a slap on the arm from Sapnap in warning. He holds his hands up in defence, his expression feigning ignorance. 

“I don’t know,” George is being honest, he laughs lightly at his own dismay, “What can I even do?” 

He’s met with silence. 

“Do you ever see yourself being able to be friends, or at the very least civil?” Sapnap speaks up, picking absentmindedly at his nails. Karl is waiting for an answer intently, his shoulders are bunched in excitement, clearly finding the whole situation very interesting. George can't blame him, he knows he would too from a third person perspective. 

“That’s uh-“ George finds himself biting his lip again, “A lot to ask. I don't know. I doubt he’d even want to be friends with me either.” 

He catches both Karl and Sapnap not matching his eyes, but rather watching the spot behind him in a sort of panic. Somewhere between his words Karl started swinging his hand across his neck for George to shut up, but he didn’t catch it. 

He hears shifting behind him, then feels a sort of looming presence. The hairs on his back stand up straight, and he shivers. There’s a voice. 

  
  


“I would.” 

  
  



	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I’d mention (if you haven’t already noticed) that each chapter switches POV and time frame , and so on and so forth. 
> 
> As in chapter one, present day, chapter two, past, etc. :)
> 
> ALSO CW I GUESS?? this chapter is a little spicey?? but also not really?? idk

Dream feels a little nervous. It’s funny, because he doesn’t really  _ get  _ nervous. Sure, he gets anxious, gets in on his head about dumb stuff, but only when his ego or sense of self is in question- not  _ these  _ kinds of things. Dream finds himself to be a guy that is very calm in situations where others would worry, and he freaks out when in scenarios when no one else would care. 

Right now, he’s falling out of pattern, and he doesn’t know how to feel about it. It shows in the little tingle in his fingers, or how he’s twirling random parts of his hair in distraction. It’s not very monumental or noticeable, but Dream catches it nevertheless. 

The cause of his rift comes in the form of just some guy. But to Dream, he’s so much more than that. He’s a bustling, entrancing wave of messiness and confusion in Dream’s brain, but somehow he craves it, longs for it. George is ruining every sense of normality and he loves it, deep down. Even if the shift makes his skin crawl and stomach churn, he doesn’t want to run, not yet. 

So that’s why he’s standing expectantly at one of his schools many exits, not so coincidentally the one he had previously discovered George uses on this particular day, at this exact time. 

And he’s nervous. He’s tapping his foot relentlessly against the concrete, watching his worn in converse practically vibrate beneath him. He’s looking around almost frantic, trying to spot a familiar head of almost black hair. People are looking at him weird, with his neck sticking out and eyes wide, scanning the crowd. He doesn’t care much about that, he’s more worried about missing George, the smaller boy somehow slipping past him. 

Shockingly, George spots him first. Dream is standing on his tippy toes, peering over the people pushing to leave, when he feels a hand on his shoulder, pulling him down. 

“Dream?” There’s the accent, “What the hell are you doing?” 

Dream is surprised his neck doesn’t snap at the speed he turns around with, George even seems taken aback, wincing a little when Dreams suddenly staring him down. 

“I was looking for you,” the blonde says a little too quickly, with a little too much confidence. George raises an eyebrow. 

“Oh,” George is looking up at him, Dream realises he’s a good bit shorter, “Okay. Why?” 

“I’m gonna take you driving, like I said I would.” 

George starts walking out the exit, Dream begins to think he’s been dodged until the boy turns around, expecting him to follow. So he does. He jogs up behind him a bit too eager, bouncing on his heels. 

“Y’know,” George speaks up when Dream finally catches up to them, the pair making their way to the school car park, “I was sort of avoiding you.”

Dream feels himself sink a little, walking slower, falling behind. George notices the lapse, and turns around, amusement clear on his features. Dream feels dejected, he never really considered how George might feel about the whole thing. He never asked for help, not really.

“Is it because I kissed you?” George can see how the other has retreated, body language timid, “Sorry. I honestly thought it would be funny.”

George laughs out loud at that, his eyes crinkling at the sides. He holds his stomach for stability, clinging onto the red hoodie that seems to swallow his smaller frame. When he finally stops he grabs Dream’s wrist, motioning him to continue leading him to his car.

“No, I thought it  _ was  _ funny, I liked it,” George explains, still giggling to himself, “It’s because I cried in front of you, I was embarrassed. I didn’t want you to think I’m a baby or something.” 

They stop in front of Dream’s car. Dream misses the hole for his keys a few times, far more interested in what George is saying than the task. He finally tears his eyes away, successfully opening the door. George gets into the passenger seat without asking, and Dream is a little surprised at the newfound boldness. Dream sits himself in the driver’s seat, closing the door behind him. 

“It’s not weak to cry,” Dream continues the conversation, he’s turned his body to face George, showing no inclination of actually starting the engine any time soon, the whole mentoring thing becoming an afterthought, “I cry all the time- about everything. If I’m happy, I cry. If I feel too much of everything I just cry, does that make me weak?” 

George is laughing lightly, mostly to deviate the seriousness that Dream has taken on. 

“No,” George is putting on his seatbelt, subtly pressing the whole ‘learning to drive matter’ forward, “I don’t think crying is a sign of weakness. I just usually cry with no one around. You’re the first person to ever see me cry- and that’s weird for me. I guess.” 

“I’m honoured.”

“You shouldn’t be,” George quips, “It wasn’t intentional.” 

Dream feels his jaw might break from smiley so hard, he reckons he probably looks crazy, mouth wide, teeth on show. George is a lot more blunt and a lot less sensitive than he had imagined, but he loves it. 

“So if I started crying right now, what would you do to comfort me?” Dream is putting on his seatbelt, quickly checking his rear view mirrors. 

“Nothing,” George is rubbing his shoes together, waiting for the car to start, “I’d probably just tell you to stop. Or I’d laugh.”

“You’d make a terrible boyfriend.”

“Hm. Probably. Good thing that’s not on my list, you’d be in trouble.” 

“Ah yes,” Dream laughs, remembering what he lured George here for, “Lucky for you, I’m the best boyfriend anyone can ask for, and now I’m teaching you to drive, so pay attention.” 

Dream scrambles in his pockets for a bit, pulling out his keys and holding them up victoriously when he manages to locate them within the junk. George is watching politely, hands in his lap. 

“Alright first things first, keys in ignition,” Dream does the action as he says it, looking back at George to make sure he’s watching, he is, “Before we turn the ignition, we gotta make sure the car is in park or neutral, don’t wanna go speeding.”

Dream feels George burning a whole into his hand as he grips the gear stick, pulling it forward. He can feel himself burning under the gaze, suddenly feeling  _ incredibly _ self conscious. He’s used to spending a lot of time scanning brown eyes and admiring the little flicks of dark hair that don’t stay in place, but the gesture being returned is something else entirely. Dream knows George is only watching so he can learn, but he likes it. He flexes his hand muscles purposefully, grips the gear stick much harder than usual. 

“Now we’re gonna turn the key into ignition,” Dream feels heavier now, the atmosphere has shifted into something else entirely, but he doesn’t know what. His chest feels weighted, every breath is a bit nerve wracking. He tries to focus on the car and how it works but everything is hazy. 

The car hums, bubbling with life, it steadies Dream, grounds him. He lets out a breath, moving the gear stick into reverse without announcing it, hoping George is watching him intently enough to pick up on it.

“Alright, one foot on the accelerator, other on the break, gonna press on the break lightly so we reverse slowly, don’t wanna bump other cars,” Dream wonders if George can hear his heavy breathing. He wouldn’t even know how to explain the reasoning, he doesn’t know why he’s as tense or as nervous as he is. He just feels on edge, as if something within the tension is going to snap. 

They reversed successfully, and Dream let out a sigh of relief. He’s done this countless times, but this was the most daunting. It’s practically muscle memory, but George watching makes him feel like an amateur. 

“We’re gonna go into drive now, press on the accelerator, kind of speaks for itself after that, you’d have to be in the driver seat,” Dream finishes, stopping the car momentarily to look back at George, gage his reaction. Most of the students have already left the car park. 

“You’re cute,” George whispers, a small smile on his face. Dream couldn’t have been prepared for it, and immediately flushes, from his temple, to his neck and down his chest. 

“Huh?” Dream is breathing rapidly, and it’s a little embarrassing, “Why?” 

It dawns on him then, that he has a cute boy in his car, smiling at him. More importantly- or rather-  _ more daunting,  _ is that he’s happy about it, and he’s flustered. He likes that he has a pretty boy in his car, and the fact that he’s a boy doesn’t change the excitement that he feels in his core about it. He’s scared, but George is too endearing to shut out.

“You we’re so focused and concentrated that I barely listened to what you were saying,” George is twiddling his thumbs, his posture less confident, “Spent most of the time just looking at your hands.” 

“My hands?” Dream feigns his own confusion, pretending like he wasn’t flexing them intentionally, like he would for a girl. He didn’t know if it applied across the board in terms of enticement, but clearly it did. 

“Yeah they’re nice,” George is much quieter now, “Very big. Well, much bigger than mine.” 

Dream really wishes George never made the comparison, for he is a monkey brained teenager and the heat of the statement goes straight to lower abdomen, and swirls there achingly. He catches himself arching slightly, chasing after absolutely nothing. He prays to every higher power that George didn’t notice it, he isn’t sure he could ever recover from the embarrassment. 

He finds himself watching George’s hands, slender and pretty. They aren’t like a girl’s, with thick knuckles and strong angled bones. They are so clearly masculine yet elegant, and Dream is terrified. A part of him wondered if his liking for George had something to do with his smaller frame or feminine features, but he was so horribly wrong. 

The thought had originally done him some comfort to avoid his inevitable sexuality crisis, but he couldn’t brush it off like that anymore. No matter what way he put it, George was clearly a man, in every way. He had a sharp jaw, hairs of stubble poking through. He was slim, sure, but shoulders still broad, collar bones curving into his chest. He knew George would have a flat, somewhat defined stomach that would lead to his hips, meeting into his v line. He knew what followed lower, and he longed for it. 

Dream was drowning. He didn’t hate it. He’d let George hold his head down, his lungs collapsing. With him, it wasn’t as scary as before. The fear was still paralysing, the implications completely stunting, but George made him want to push it all away. George made him want to try- to try to figure it out. 

“Are you alright?” He feels George’s hand on his thigh, and his brain shortcuts. It feels so wrong, to stare into the brunette's eyes of comfort and concern and feeling nothing but the grip of the hand placed on his leg. He leans into it, probably noticeably, but somehow doesn’t care. 

“Y-yes, I’m okay,” it’s a lie, “You just...you make me nervous. I guess.” 

George moves his hand, rubbing his thumb into Dream’s neck instead, the touch is a rough and admittedly slightly painful. Dream pushes into it. 

“Hm...I do?” George’s voice is low, dropped deep into his throat, it vibrates, “Why is that?” 

Dream gulps, and he feels like a loser. His nails are dug into the sides of the seat, holding on for dear life. It’s like George is playing with him, but he just lets it happen, feeling utterly incapable of pushing back. He just stares at the other like an idiot, eyes wide and blown. 

“You’re pretty,” is all Dream can offer, his chest moving up and down like crazy. George has moved past his neck, his fingers now digging into his shoulder. 

“Dream,” George breathes, “Turn the car off.” 

Dream obliges, entirely unknowing of the implications. He feels like a dumb puppy, following orders immediately and without question. He’s never experienced this sort of dynamic before, someone having a hold on him in any kind of way. He wants to push back, get the upper hand somehow, but his nerves are on fire and his brain cannot keep up. 

He hears a click, George has taken off his seatbelt. Dream lurches forward, taking the boy's arm, “Are you leaving?” 

George raises an eyebrow incredulously, and starts chuckling to himself, “Are you really more experienced than me? It’s not reflecting.” 

Dream doesn’t understand, but decides he doesn’t need to when George is suddenly in his space, both hands on either side of his neck. He’s pushed out of his seat a bit, leaning over the gear stick, towering into Dream’s side of the car. 

“Can I sit here?” George asks, pointing to Dream’s lap. Dream isn’t capable of anything other than a nod. 

George clambers over a bit awkwardly, ankle seemingly catching on every part of the car that decides to jut out. Dream thinks with anyone else it would be embarrassing, but the both of them laugh about it. 

Dream stops laughing completely when he’s being straddled, and out of nowhere there’s a weight seated on him, pressure on his crotch. He looks up to a very smiley George, who’s just palming at random parts of Dream’s body happily to himself, not a care in the world. 

Dream is amazed with himself when he manages to place his hands on George’s waist, and tug him forward so their chests are pressed together. George squeaks, neck flushing, and Dream feels a little accomplished. 

George decides to bury his nose into the blonde's nape, mouthing at the area. Dream bucks forward and everything fucking spirals. 

George stills, pulling away slowly, letting out a small, breathy noise. He’s staring into Dream’s eyes, searching for something. He evidently doesn’t find what he’s looking for, and pushes back in thought. 

“Dream…” He doesn’t sound happy, and Dream doesn’t know how to react, wondering if he’s read the whole thing wrong. 

“I, uh, I’m sorry- I didn’t-“ 

“No, no,” George is shushing him, “I...There’s something I need to ask but, I don’t know how to ask it.” 

“You can ask me anything, I don’t mind.”

“Are you just saying that so I’ll shut up and suck your dick?” George is joking, but Dream immediately surges to protest, feeling deeply offended by the suggestion. 

“No!” he’s blustering, “That’s not!-“

“I know I know, I’m messing with you.”

There’s a small silence, Dream swears he can hear George thinking. 

“Just ask me.” 

“Swear you won’t be offended?” 

“I’ll try.” 

George legs out a deep sigh, teeth nagging on his lip. 

“Dream…” He lets out a breath, “I’ve never… done anything. You know that. And you’re sweet and nice, and I barely know you but I trust you. At the same time… I don’t wanna be used, or … experimented with.” 

Dream doesn’t say anything. 

“That’s not...I don’t want that, and I usually wouldn’t ask this sort of thing but with you it’s just hard to tell and it’s so bad but…” 

Dream somehow expects it before it’s said, but still can’t prepare himself for it. 

“Dream, are you gay?” 

Before he knows it, he’s crying. It’s now George’s turn to comfort him. 

Dream absentmindedly wishes George would tell him to stop, just like he said he would. 

He doesn’t. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twt: @MEACHES_


End file.
